


Who By Fire

by thegrumblingirl



Series: The Stars, the Moon, They Have All Been Blown Out [3]
Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: M/M, The Beginning of the End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-04
Updated: 2012-08-04
Packaged: 2017-11-11 10:02:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/477340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrumblingirl/pseuds/thegrumblingirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 2 o'clock and Time Is My Vessel. Gene and Sam go on, somehow living their life together, but, oh, there are clouds a-brewing on that horizon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who By Fire

Sam didn't know. Sam thought he was the one keeping secrets, the one who knew more than the others and opted to keep it to himself to protect his friends—his world—from falling apart. But Gene Hunt knew better, didn't he?

DCI Gene Hunt, freshly divorced as of March 27, 1976, leaned against the side of his beloved Ford Cortina, watching his beloved DI Sam Tyler fetch them a celebratory serving of fish & chips after busting a few burglars who'd had the audacity to strike just two street corners from their bed away, and knew better. He didn't know how much of it Sam had pieced together by now, whether it had ever occurred to him that he couldn't have been the only one aware of what this world was: a place for dead coppers like Sam. Like Gene. Like Chris, Ray, and Annie. Sam thought that they wouldn't believe him anyway, that they took this world for as real as the one they had left. Well, he had a point—no-one had ever taken his "ideas" about time travel and coma seriously. Gene himself had thrown them back in his face time and time again, all the while clamping down on the impulse to say more than he dared. Perhaps Sam thought that whoever had created this world, based on what cop life was, in all its shapes and forms, had left it alone, that there was no-one in charge, at least not as such. Sometimes Gene wondered whether Sam had just pegged God or some other entity as responsible and left it at that.

It was hard, sometimes, for Gene not to spill the beans. Not just to Sam, but to everyone—though Sam was the worst. It just had to be like this for him; not that he had the worst issues to cope with, but he was the one lying in a coma for weeks on end. With this lasting connection with Life came the doubts and the awareness. For the others, this was their world, their lives, and they accepted it without question as long as no-one threatened his kingdom and blew the roof of to reveal what it really was. Gene had to make sure it stayed that way—he was the one who had to help them move on when they were ready. With a sigh and a tired groan, he pinched the bridge of his nose. He was doing a shoddy job of it lately; he needed no interstellar memo to tell him that. He'd kept Ray and Chris around far too long already, he feared, although they still had a lot to go through to move on, and Sam… How long could this keep going on? How long until Sam was ready, and how long after that until he figured it out? As soon as they knew, they had to leave, 'cause they could only handle that when they  _were_  ready; and he'd set this rule for himself, he wasn't going to back out of it. But how long would Sam need to let go of Life, and stay blissfully unaware? Another year? Two years? Three? And what if another character like Frank Morgan came along, using a different name, of course, though Gene could sniff the likes of him out from sixty miles away, be it Harvey, Jim, or Steven.

But the worst of it was that he knew something else. He knew that Sam was tormenting himself, that he was feeling guilty about not believing in the reality of this world, of having no faith. He was feeling guilty about keeping something, from his point of view, vital from Gene, something that could—and would—affect their relationship enormously once the cat was out of the bag. Sam dared not bring it up, Gene didn't want to, and here they were. Both feeling guilty, and getting worse at hiding it by the day.

"Gene?  _Gene_."

Sam called to his partner, waving a packet of fish & chips in front of his face.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, give me that, patsy. Thanks."

The two started eating in comfortable silence, but Sam didn't care that curiosity killed the cat, so he asked.

"You were miles away there. Everything alright?"

"You ask the strangest questions, Sammy boy. We've busted a few criminals, the sun's rising, and we've got breakfast."

"I meant more in terms of… y'know. The divorce."

"Oh, well. The missus and I have parted ways, we're both happy, the rest of the family thinks I'm a failure, and I don't have a home anymore, apart from that dingy apartment. What could possibly go wrong?"

Sam tried to ignore the jolt he felt as Gene called his apartment home, at least sort of. After Gene and his ex-wife had agreed to sell the house and get out of the neighbourhood, Sam had officially granted him "asylum" until he found a new place to live—which saved the DCI from sleeping at the station half the time, and both of them from awkward questions. That had been three months ago, the divorce had been finalized just a few days ago, and they hadn't even had time to properly talk about it, which unnerved Sam. Sam had also gotten used to waking up next to his partner every morning now, and he was still trying to figure out how to ask Gene whether taking turns—meaning sneaking off to each other's places every other day when they couldn't use Getting Drunk at the Railway Arms and Crashing at Whichever Place Is Nearer as an excuse—might be advisable.

"Oh, off the top of my head… about a hundred things?" Gene threw Sam a curious glance, and Sam looked up and down the street before leaning in very closely, closely enough for his lips to touch the other man's earlobe, and whispering into his lover's ear, "For example, the others could find out that you aren't actually  _that_  keen on finding a new flat..?"

Gene didn't bother to hide the grin that split his face in two at this. He enjoyed being able to stay at Sam's night after night without having to worry about explanations, but he had to admit that, after three months, it might be getting weird. Of course, he could always tell anyone who dared ask that being a DCI and catching scum sort of took priority before finding a flat and to shove it up their arse; but in 1976, it wasn't exactly wise to let the rumours run rampant. Frank Morgan, he reminded himself again, and suppressed a shudder.

"I probably should start looking, shouldn't I? Not that I want to, you know that."

"I know—I don't want you to, either, but, yeah, you should. Somewhere close would be nice, though. Any ideas?"

"Ah, you want us to sneak, don't you, Tyler?"

Sam didn't bother fighting the blush he felt coming on as Gene fixed him with his patented stare that he always used when he sniffed out a moment of insecurity from his DI. But he did take another bite to buy himself a little time.

"Well… yeah."

"Why didn't you just ask?"

_Bastard_ , Sam thought,  _you know why_. Instead of answering, he just gave a lopsided smile.

"Ah, Sammy boy, I really don't understand how after nearly three years, a few disasters, and countless hickeys in places my granny would blush to think of, you can still—"

"I can, alright?"

"And doesn't it make you adorable."

"Stop it. Back to the matter at hand?"

"If it helps. Well, about a flat in sneaking distance, I could always ask—oh."

"Wha'?"

"Why haven't I thought of this before? More to the point, why haven't you thought of this before, boy wonder?"

"Of what?"

"Are there any empty flats in your building? There must be, no-one would live there voluntarily."

"Oi! But, yeah, I suppose—oh. Oh!"

"Exactly."

"That means we could—"

"Easily."

"And no-one would—"

"Probably. It is practical—after all, we work together."

"Are you taking the piss?"

"No, of course not! Not… entirely."

"Sod."

"Ooh, such scandalous insults today, you should watch that filthy mouth of yours, Tyler."

"You mean the same mouth that was so cruelly robbed of your cock when the station radioed about that burglary one block away?" Sam wiggled his eyebrows suggestively; Gene got that dangerous glint in his eyes and leaned heavily into him.

"Don't play games with me, you rascal, or I shall—"

"Guv, Sam, where are you?"

Both men turned to stare at the radio. They were not amused.

"I swear, Philis, one of these days," the guv groused, nudged Sam aside and wrenched the car door open to sit down and answer the call.

"What is it now, you infuriating old hag, haven't we done enough?"

"Not quite yet. Remember the bloke that was reported missing two days ago? Well, he turned up. With a bullet in his head, right between the eyes."

"Oh, isn't that bloody wonderful…"

While Gene got the address, Sam collected the remains of their food and chucked it in the nearest bin, and then took a moment to stretch and take a deep breath. Was this it, then? The end of the line? Was this copper heaven—or copper purgatory? The thought of having to leave, again, for something unknown terrified Sam more than he cared to admit. He was dead—they all were, weren't they? But no-one would believe him. For them, this world was as real as the one they had left. Couldn't they remember? Did they want to, sometimes? Sam certainly didn't want to go back, had not even wished for it in those dark, long, days after his betrayal, when he'd been cut off from everyone, most importantly from Gene. It wasn't as if he could, now, anyway. He'd sealed his fate, and he didn't regret a thing. But he felt guilty. Guilty for knowing something they didn't or denied themselves to know. Why did he know? Why couldn't he just forget? Why was it still so important? Why couldn't he just fight crime by day, make love by night?

Without realizing it, he had started to pace up and down next to the Cortina, and he was only shaken out of his anxiety by Gene calling his name. When he looked up, he found the DCI looking at him with a piercing stare.

"Get in, Gladys. Murder to solve, landlord to ring up for a flat, bosh!"

Sam couldn't help but smile and got in on the other side, pointedly not bothering with the seat belt. When they weren't speeding off towards the crime scene five seconds later, he looked at Gene, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"What?"

"You were miles away there. Everything alright?"

Sam smiled again, though it felt uncharacteristically tight even to his own lips.

"Yeah, of course. Just stretching my legs a little, and, um, thinking about the case. A well-placed bullet to the head? Sounds unusual."

"Yeah, it is."

After another sidelong glance at Sam, Gene put the Cortina on the road.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing, I get nothing. Title: 'Who By Fire' is a lovely song by Leonard Cohen, from his album New Skin for the Old Ceremony, it struck me as fitting.
> 
> Repost from ff.net.


End file.
